Chapter 2

The next morning, I bypassed the funeral home and the well-meaning calls of distant relatives. My first stop was the cemetery. The air was cool and damp, the sky a blanket of grey. I found the fresh plot of earth easily, the temporary marker bearing his name: David Chen.

I knelt on the wet grass, tracing the letters of his name with my finger. "I'm sorry, David," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. "I'm sorry I let them hurt you. I'm sorry I let them take what was yours. It won't happen again. I promise."

There were no tears this time. Just a cold, hard resolve solidifying in my chest. I stayed for a few minutes, a silent communion with the brother I had lost twice. Then I stood, brushed the dirt from my knees, and walked away. I had work to do.

David' s apartment was a small, cluttered space above a closed-down laundromat, a place he' d loved for its cheap rent and tolerance for late-night noise. I let myself in with the key he' d given me years ago, a key I' d kept on my ring even through my marriage to Mark. The air inside was stale, smelling of cold coffee and soldering fumes. It smelled like him.

My eyes scanned the organized chaos of his workshop. Circuit boards, wires, and half-assembled gadgets covered every surface. In the corner, next to a whiteboard filled with complex equations, was a large, heavy-duty gun safe. That was it.

I knelt and entered the combination, a sequence of numbers only he and I knew: the date our parents died. The heavy door swung open with a soft click. Inside, nestled in protective foam, was the prototype. It was a sleek, silver glove, intricately wired and humming with a faint, latent energy. Beside it was a stack of notebooks filled with his elegant, precise handwriting and a series of encrypted hard drives. This was his life' s work. This was our future.

I was carefully packing the notebooks into my bag when I heard footsteps pounding up the old wooden stairs. My blood ran cold. I slammed the safe door shut just as the apartment door burst open.

Mark stood there, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild. He wasn't wearing his usual tailored suit, but a casual jacket, as if he'd been searching for me all night.

"I knew you'd be here," he said, advancing into the room. His eyes immediately locked onto the safe. "What are you doing? That belongs to Emily."

"No," I said, standing up to face him, my body a shield in front of the safe. "It belongs to me."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sarah," he snarled, his voice losing all its practiced charm. "David would have wanted Emily to have it. Her company is failing. This will save it. It' s the right thing to do."

"The right thing to do?" I repeated, my voice dripping with scorn. "You mean the right thing for you and your obsession with playing the hero for your dead partner's widow."

His face contorted with rage. "You don't know what you're talking about! I made a promise to her husband that I would look after her!"

"You made a promise to me, too, Mark!" I shot back. "Or did our entire life together mean nothing?"

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to grab my arm. "Give me the combination, Sarah."

I stood my ground, refusing to flinch. "No."

He grabbed my shoulder, his fingers digging into my skin. "Don't make this difficult."

A surge of pure adrenaline shot through me. I twisted away from him, stumbling back against the workbench. "Get out!" I screamed. "This is my brother's apartment! You have no right to be here!"

We were locked in a tense standoff, his greed against my grief-fueled determination. He was bigger, stronger, but I had a fire in me he had never seen before.

"You're being selfish," he accused, his voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss. "You're thinking only of yourself, as always. You're letting your grief make you cruel. After everything I've done for you, after I offered you a home, a family..."

"You offered me a cage!" I retorted, my voice shaking with fury. "And you used my brother's legacy as the lock!"

He stared at me, his chest heaving. He seemed to realize that brute force wasn't going to work, not right now. He changed tactics, his expression shifting back to one of weary condescension.

"Fine," he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "Keep it. For now. You're emotional. We'll talk about this later, after the funeral, when you're thinking more rationally." He ran a hand through his hair, a picture of put-upon patience. "I'll still marry you, Sarah. We can put all this behind us."

His arrogance was breathtaking. He still thought he held all the cards. He still thought he could manage me.

Just then, his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, and I saw Emily's name on the screen. His entire demeanor changed in an instant. The anger and frustration vanished, replaced by a soft, concerned tone.

"Emily? Yes, I'm alright... No, don't worry about me. Are you holding up okay? I'll be there soon. I promise." He hung up and shot me a look of pure disgust, as if I were a piece of dirt on his shoe. "I have to go. Someone actually needs me."

He turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The silence he left behind was deafening. I stood there for a long moment, my body trembling, my shoulder aching where he' d grabbed me.

He would be back. I knew it. But he wouldn't get in next time.

I immediately called a 24-hour locksmith and had them change the lock on the apartment door. As I watched the locksmith work, I held the cold, heavy prototype in my hands. It was more than a piece of technology. It was a symbol. My independence. My future. My revenge.

Later that night, back in my motel room, a memory surfaced unbidden. It was from when we were sixteen. We were sitting on a park bench, sharing a soda. He' d just saved up enough money from his part-time job to buy a beat-up old car. He was so proud. He' d turned to me, his eyes bright with earnest sincerity, and said, "I'm going to be so successful one day, Sarah. And I'm going to share it all with you. We'll build a life together. I promise."

I remembered the boy who said that. The boy who looked at me like I was his whole world. I mourned him now, just as I mourned my brother. Because the man who had stood in David's apartment, the man who had put his hands on me in anger and whose first thought was for another woman, was a complete stranger. That boy was long dead. And my love for him had finally died, too.